Undercover Protector. Cassie Miles

frozen pasta to feed Italy.

      “Tell me, Annie.” Edna’s button nose twitched, sniffing out fresh gossip. “Are you married yet?”

      “Not yet.” Annie forced a smile.

      “A career woman, huh? I heard you were a policewoman. Ever kill anybody?”

      “No.” Other people seemed to think her life was one big action-adventure movie.

      “But I’ll bet you’ve shot somebody.”

      “No again.” Annie shoved a loaf of bread on top of her other groceries, slung the canvas pouch over her shoulder and headed for the door. “See you around, Edna.”

      At the corner she turned. It was four blocks from the mini-mart back to her grandpa’s house on Myrtlewood Lane.

      Had she ever killed anybody? What a question! Her job was mostly paperwork and common sense. She seldom unholstered her gun and had never purposefully intended to shoot another human being—with the notable exception of the man who’d assaulted her in the parking lot four days ago. If she’d reached her gun in time, she would have fired. That incident, however, was more about self-preservation than policework. Or was it?

      For a couple of weeks she’d been on the receiving end of some very strange harassment. Some unknown person had been leaving cheap porcelain figurines where she’d be sure to find them. It started with a skunk on her desk at work. Then there was a ballet dancer on the hood of her car. In the hall outside her apartment she’d found a chipmunk with a chipped ear.

      These odd gifts, unaccompanied by a note or any type of explanation, didn’t make sense. At the time she hadn’t thought they were meant as threats.

      She rounded the corner onto Myrtlewood Lane, enjoying the comfort of wearing khaki walking shorts and a red T-shirt, instead of a police uniform with a utility belt that weighed thirteen pounds. Her long straight blond hair was free from the regulation ponytail or bun that went with her uniform. In spite of the slight residual headache from her concussion, she felt good.

      Here at home, the air always smelled fresher. The red-and-gold sky before dusk shone with more brilliance. Her ears resonated with normally unheard sounds, like the whirr of a hummingbird’s wings.

      Though Bridgeport lay only fifteen miles from the coast on the Yaquina River, it was nothing like the bustling touristy seaside towns. Instead, the profound stillness—so different from the city—gave an illusion of security, as if they were sheltered by the old-growth forests that Bridgeport, being a logging town, had done its best to destroy.

      The screech of brakes interrupted her reverie, and she watched a dusty beat-up black pickup park at the curb. The guy who climbed out from behind the steering wheel stared directly at her. Was he somebody she knew? Or was he a threat?

      Warily Annie halted as he came toward her. He wore work boots, worn jeans and a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and frayed—a typical logger outfit. He was solidly built, probably six feet tall and two hundred pounds. “You’re Annie.”

      “That’s right.” She couldn’t place him, and hoped this was an innocent encounter. Forcing a smile, she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.”

      “On account of we never met.” Up close there was no other word for him but ugly. Limp strands of yellow hair dangled across his narrow forehead. His mouth twitched. The scent of fruit-flavored chewing gum mingled with the acrid smell of his sweat. “Ain’t this a pretty sunset. I always missed the sunsets when I was in prison.”

      Prison? A shudder went through her. This meeting felt horribly familiar to the one in the parking lot. He’d come out of nowhere. She was carrying groceries. “Wh-who are you?”

      “You’re a cop, right?”

      She nodded, not wanting to speak because he’d hear the tremble in her voice. What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually so easily spooked.

      “Some ex-cons don’t cotton to lady cops. But me?” He thumped his chest and chewed his gum faster. “I like a woman in uniform.”

      Was he the assailant? Had he followed her to Bridgeport? She tried to picture him in a black poncho and baseball cap. Her mind flashed back to that chilly rainy night. She saw the baseball bat. Her arm twitched with remembered agony. Icy fear crept up and ambushed her.

      Her ears drummed with the remembered sounds of pelting rain and thunder. Darkness danced behind her eyelids. She wanted to run. Her grandpa’s house was less than fifty yards away. But her muscles froze, and she was unable to move.

      “The name is Drew Bateman,” he said.

      She blurted, “What do you want?”

      “I’m just hanging around.” He stared so hard that his head came forward like a snake. “But I ain’t going away. Every time you look around, I’ll be there. Tell your grandpa.”

      Was he threatening her grandpa? Oh, God. She had to pull herself together. For Lionel’s sake, she had to be strong.

      Bateman continued, “Me and Lionel go way back. Every time I came up for parole, they checked with Lionel Callahan, the municipal judge. He never once spoke up for me.”

      Her eyes darted. There was no one else on the street. It was dinner hour. Everyone must be inside around the table, saying grace, unaware of the danger. If she screamed—

      “Your grandpa kept me in jail.”

      He took a step toward her. She’d been caught unprepared. Again. Helpless. Again. “Stay away from me.”

      “I won’t touch you. I’m no fool. I won’t get busted for assault and go back to jail like your grandpa wants.”

      “Leave him out of this!”

      She heard the door slam and glanced toward the sound. From her grandpa’s house, a dark handsome man emerged. Even before he was near enough for her to clearly see his features, she recognized his stride. She would never forget the way he moved.

      His thick black hair glistened in the last glow of sunlight. His dark tan contrasted the white of his button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.

      “Michael.” His name choked in her throat. She was blinded by a brilliant flash of memory. He was her first love, her deepest love. Michael. She never thought she’d see him again. Against her will, a smile cut through her fear. He was still strong and unbelievably handsome. Michael Slade. Eleven years ago he had broken her heart.

      He approached quickly. His jaw was set, hard as stone. His dark eyes stared past her at Bateman. Hatred simmered between the two men. A harsh tension charged the atmosphere with the impending danger of a lit fuse.

      Michael said, “Move along, Bateman.”

      “I got a right to be here. It’s a public sidewalk. I’m not breaking any laws.”

      “You’re loitering.”

      Michael hadn’t even looked at Annie, hadn’t acknowledged her presence in any way. His behavior seemed rude. He could’ve patted her shoulder or at least given her a nod. It was as if she didn’t even exist. Anger cut sharply through Annie’s fear. Damn you, Michael Slade.

      “Loitering is bull,” Bateman said, snapping his chewing gum. “You ain’t got nothing on me.”

      “You were harassing this lady.”

      This lady? Was that her only significance to him? After all these years, after the way he’d left her without a word, she deserved name recognition at the very least. “This lady can take care of herself.”

      “I’m not talking to you, Annie.”

      “Obviously.”

      “I’ll handle this.”

      A moment ago she’d been frightened, ready to scream and run away. Now, Michael, whom she hadn’t